Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  With that thought, breath and resolution returned. I stared at the man, never taking my eyes from his face, while the white robe curled about my feet and I lifted first one leg and then the other to step free of it. He had stopped what he was doing now and was staring, too, resolution fading from his eyes, something dark and hot taking its place. He said nothing, moved purposefully, unbuckling sword and knife, unbuttoning his jerkin.

  ‘Well, well, dove,’ he said, and his voice had taken a new quality, the sound men make to themselves when they curry a horse, half-whistle, half-purr, and his tongue flicked between his lips, ‘so that is what my master was biding on. So.’

  I let him look at me. God forgive me, but I let him, calmly, part of my mind registering the effect my nakedness had on him. Lust mounted in him like a wave, cresting at his face, which seemed to swell, bloated with desire. I stepped back, appalled, disgust rising in my throat like vomit, new fear like sweat across my skin. The wall jarred against my spine and I had not known I had moved.

  He was unfastening his belt now, his hands clumsy, letting it fall with a clatter. He caught at the shirt beneath the outer jacket, tearing at the fastenings until his bare flesh came tumbling out, wet as if with rain, and his hair was matted.

  ‘We’ll not leave awhile yet,’ he said, whispering, his halfgrin breaking out. ‘We’ll lie low and let them search for you. We’ve time for fun.’

  Still not taking his eyes from me, he began to fumble with his nether hose, straining to burst the laces. Then he came towards me, hair on head and face and body raised like a dog’s.

  I heard Raoul’s voice in my ear again: Hold firm, hold firm.

  He stood still once, like that boar in the forest, scenting out what was before him, thrusting with his horn that swung before.

  ‘By all that’s holy,’ he breathed, ‘to have all this.’

  And then he came upon me in a rush, head down, shoulders squared, and all his swollen front thrust forward. Almost against my will, I felt my hand tighten against him. The wall was at my back, and without my trying, he ran himself full tilt against the dagger point. I felt it slide as if through butter, and for a moment all his wet pulsating flesh lay against mine, pinning me to the wall. I could not see, felt only the rank wheeze of his breath, his thick wet skin. Then breath and flesh and skin seemed to shrivel and fade. He slid sideways, stiffly, his arms still outspread, and the gush of blood that followed pooled about us on the floor.

  Then nothing. No sound. Only the faint gutterings of the candle and the painful thud of my own heart. I stood as if frozen, unable to move or think, the knife held stiffly in my blood-caked hand.

  The sound of the bell brought me back. Another quarter hour was done. I moved with a cry over that lifeless body and felt waves of sickness tear my chest apart, as if loathing and relief would drown me. I have seen men die since then, God forgive me, but seldom death so vile, to perish full-bellied on the swell of lust. Gwendyth had vengeance, but my soul cringed from the taking of it. But there was no time for thoughts, regrets, then. They come later, long after in the dark of night, alone.

  Two bells had rung out their chimes. If I was to make a move, I must do it now. They should still be at their chanting. But they might have sent already to begin the search, or they might be waiting to the end, to hunt together, a blind man’s bluff with darkness as the hood and here the game’s end. If they found me with these dead bodies, what then could I do? Without thought, without hesitation, I took the poor pitiful clothes of the dead boy and slid them on. They were too short, but they would suffice for the time. I folded my own white gown to hide the stains and tears and arranged it as a shroud about him, prayers coming to my lips almost by instinct, although I did not know I was thinking of them. I was able to straighten his tumbled arms and legs although not the twisted angle of his head. But I wiped his face clean, and pillowed it on some straw that I dragged off the bed. Then, with loathing but design, I pulled the dead man beside him, throwing the rest of the straw from the pallet about, heaping his clothes over him. Stopping one last time, I wrested my father’s ring from his finger, then ran to the chamber door. Luck was with me: there was no noise of search or outcry, only the pigeons cooing in the cot above the archway, the horse softly feeding.

  I tiptoed to the entrance of the courtyard; again nothing, except a second empty yard and the gate of the convent with the great bar set to keep it locked. I struggled with the bar, breaking nails and skin until, with a groan, it swung back and the gates creaked half-open.

  Still no noise. But now I must be quick. When they came looking, there must be something to distract them. I ran back to the room. With shaking hand, I took the candle and thrust it in the straw, so that it flared up with a wicked roar. There was nothing else of use, sword and belt too large, spurs too heavy. At the last moment I remembered the bag of gold coins and my small velvet pouch, and reached across to snatch them as the flames began to lick at the wooden furniture. Then to where the horse was tied, straining nervously now with flaring eyes at the sight and sound of fire. I scrambled onto its back as best I could, wasting time, for it would not stand still, and with my knife hacked at the rope that tied it. And then as the first cries of alarm were raised, I kicked and wrenched the horse round, sending it squealing and stamping through the archway into the second courtyard, crashing past the outer gate into that forest beyond.

  How far I rode in the darkness, full tilt down one of the forest tracks, I cannot say. Even the horse began to weary. So gradually, as no sound or pursuit followed, we slackened speed and began to plod more slowly forward. Then there was time to think. Among the thoughts (and the others I keep to myself, they are private, I tell you, sad and private thoughts) were practical ones. As far as I could tell, we had followed the same direction that we had taken last year from Sedgemont. But I did not mean to return to Sedgemont. Somewhere I must find the track that turned to the west, the way the soldiers would have gone after they had left us. To the west lay Cambray. I would go westward.

  At length, when I judged we could ride no more, I turned off the path, found a resting place under some trees, tied the horse with the dangling rope end, and settled for the night. The saddlebags were still in place, filled with scraps of food and meat. I ate slowly as I considered my position. First, as I might have thought of earlier, there would be no pursuit, the convent having neither horses nor men able to ride after me. And even if the prioress sent for help, what would she say, to whom would she go? Not to Sedgemont, that was certain, nor to the lords of Maneth, at least not yet, if she must report my loss. Thirdly, the fire would certainly hinder her, for although she might find evidence, she would not know its meaning. She might even think that I had perished in the flames. She might be loath to report that also, for what reward could she expect from Maneth if I were dead? So I could feel fairly safe for the moment, on all or any of these accounts. And if her lies had, at last, been made clear, well, at least she had given me back faith in my own friends and in myself.

  Yet, on the other hand, what hope would I, a maid, have, to ride unescorted in these rough and dangerous times? How could I expect to get through to the western border undetected? Yet as I worried, food and rest gave me courage. Why should not I travel as a boy, a page, about his master’s business? As Lady Ann, I could not go alone. And, for all I knew, Guy of Maneth would be out scouring the countryside for me, even if I had a score of knights beside me. As page, about my lord’s affairs, mounted, with a sharp dagger at my side, I could be as safe as any other on the road, provided I kept at a distance from anyone else and was wary in all I said and did. But then, I thought again, there were too many inconsistencies—clothes and steed for example, did not match with each other: a swineherd on a knight’s war horse? Besides, there might be others who later on would recognise, as I had done, a bay from Maneth’s stable. Yet, I thought again, if I can exchange this horse for something more suiting my size and needs, and find clothes becoming to my new station, a warm cloak and h
ood, I may pass . . .

  So did I plan, and with that, slept. God grant us all such easy sleep, such dreamless rest, as I had then, still patterned with the blood of the man I had slain, still dressed in the clothes of a boy I had seen murdered. Yet patience, patience. God has His way to requite those who break His laws, even in the end. I have seen men die since; but the first death at your conscience comes the hardest, may cost more dear, although the debt be long in its repayment.

  At earliest dawn I was on my way again. In daylight, I could at least see which of the many paths would put the sun behind me; without that knowledge, I would have been lost, for the forest here spilled out on all sides like a great grey sea and the dead leaves underfoot rustled like shingle. I was caught in an endless mesh of branch and thicket, alone. If I had had sling or arrows, I could have had fresh meat in plenty, for hares and rabbits bounded away in front of us almost close enough to touch. At length, about midday, I came to a village deep in a clearing, with only a few half-tilled fields set about. They were a strange race, those villagers, living far from other humans, not wresting their living from the land with crops and herds, but hewing it forth from the trees that they cut and hauled for the iron and steel makers farther north. They were a dark and dirty crew, as like to have pulled me from my horse as not, but I kept at a distance, and with voice and gesture copied from the fair-haired Geoffrey when he wished to make a good impression, promised them money from my little hoard if they would furnish my needs, pivoting my own horse about so no one could come creeping up behind me.

  My story or manner convinced them. Or perhaps it was the sight of the coins. Or perhaps luck was still with me. They brought up a smaller pony, with food and clothes strapped on, stolen no doubt, at least the pony must have been, for it was a well-bred beast, better than I had right to hope for.

  After letting them trot it up and down for inspection, I had them lead it to a clearing in the forest and then back off, so I could effect a change, having told them some improbable story which I now forget. They may have taken me for a thief myself with my bruised and swollen face, the bloodstains visible still. Having taken precaution to hack through reins and saddle girths to prevent pursuit, I threw myself from one mount to the other, fearing to ride on with the bay in case it should betray me, fearing to leave it behind if they would use it to swing out after me. I galloped from the clearing and did not feel safe until a half-day’s hard ride had convinced me that I was free. Then I could go on, more slowly again, for the first time feeling that perhaps this improbable venture would succeed. Dressed in my new finery I scarce knew myself, and once was startled by my own reflection when we stopped to drink at a woodland pool. I had not realised how my face, still marked with rough usage, the close-crisped hair, the jerkin, boots, dagger, all enhanced the role I had chosen to play. I even began to savour the part—a young gentleman about some important business on his father’s behalf for his lord, for so my story grew, with hint of something illicit, some minor crime perhaps, some fault that had made the shelter of the woods a better place for the while, some little hint of danger that I thought might make people leery of me. One thing was certain: in this young boy, half-defiant, half-aggressive, no one would see the Lady Ann of Cambray.

  The next days passed without incident, although the weather worsened, changing suddenly to sleet and rain, so that I was forced to find shelter at times, although once I was obliged to spend the night huddled underneath a hollow tree, and worse lodgings I have never known. But I would have had to make contact with people in any case, my food supplies having run out and the western reaches of the forest appearing to thin out abruptly. Isolated farms and villages took the place of trees. I would have avoided these places if I had had a choice, for I was still not sure of my way, and although certain I was moving westward, I was always fearful of coming too far north and encroaching on Maneth lands. I had been only once on this way, and then as a child, but the distant line of mountains, whence came the storms weeping down—those I did remember. And the fertile valleys at their foot.

  Yet the storms were a boon to me. They hid my tracks, made pursuit difficult, so that when finally the Lord of Maneth heard of my escape from the convent where he had thought to lock me away forever, it was too late to throw a ring of men around the forest edge; I had already slipped past. But I did not know all this at the time, nor that the cold and wet that hindered me made me safe, although, as you will hear, at a later date, an even wilder storm helped me in similar fashion.

  So now I moved on, albeit slowly, bettering my story with each retelling until no one seemed to question it or me. In this way did I, in my small fashion, repeat those greater, weightier journeys of which I was to hear later from Giles.

  In one incident especially did I reflect those adventures of greater import, although to compare them would be vanity beyond foolishness. When I came to the upland plains, which you have to cross to reach the hill country proper, then did I see for myself the desolation that had haunted Giles. The villages there were not so large or important as the ones he had seen, but once they must have been prosperous, full of people busy about their affairs, rural people content to work on the land for their overlord. Now everything was unkempt, as if those who lived there no longer cared what became of them. And once, by chance, my path crossed that of the armies’ although they had long moved on, where, no one seemed to know or care either. But here, equally in small-wise, did my experience repeat the feeling of our times—that nowhere was safe territory, nowhere were homes or fields or occupations or inhabitants secure from desolation.

  It was a poor sort of place, this village, one of the worst I had passed through. The villagers at Sedgemont lived as princes in comparison. Caught by a new blizzard, I had lodged at what must at one time have been an inn. Now, its doors and shutters battered down, its flooring ripped apart, it might have served as a cattle pen. Yet people lived there, many of them, whose own hovels had been razed to the ground. I noticed how they burned the wooden boards that might have been used to make repairs. Even the fence pickets they burned, as if there was no need to preserve them.

  Usually, too, western people are curious with strangers. Not open themselves, they nevertheless like to hear the news of the greater world. These people were listless. You could see it in the way men sat hunched around their fire with never stick or strap to keep them occupied, and women crouched against the walls without wool or thread. There were few children, no cattle, and no work in the fields. I think people were too apathetic to take heed of my tale, however well I told it. Save one man, old but still alert; you could tell that by the way his eyes still gleamed faintly and his toothless jaw jutted out when he was displeased. He took me aside the second day. I was not frightened of him. He was as thin and dry as a reed, no taller than I was, and bent about the joints like a gnarled stump. And I had Giles’s knife at hand.

  ‘Who would it be you are seeing now?’ he asked in his singsong voice. I had forgotten how they spoke there, Norman-French, but with such a Celtic lilt as to make it neither one language nor another. I did not answer at first, seeing to my pony for the next day’s ride, wary of a trap.

  He gestured with his knotted hands at all the broken doors and walls. ‘Many passed through here last spring,’ he said, ‘going east, as doubtless you have heard. Then back they came again, twice within months.’

  He spat among the nettles that still grew through the shattered floor.

  ‘Back and forth like hounds baiting. From France most of them came, panting to devour us.’

  He spat again. ‘I’ll show you where one company camped,’ he said. ‘If you’ve a mind to go there. Up yonder.’ He nodded to the hill above the village ruins. ‘Only fools would stay down here to tear at what had already been stripped bare. But up there, great walls of stone they built, wondrous to behold, and set up camp in proper-wise.’

  Against my better judgment, I went up with him. Yet I was curious, too, to see what manner of men these raveners had
been. It was still light, although the sky was studded with the wrack of clouds, scudding along behind the storm. We climbed slowly, for the ground was iced with hail and sleet. We went at his pace, but I took care that he walked in front, and kept my hand upon my knife hilt for security. It was a strange place he brought me to, yet he was right that it was better kept than the ruins below. Walled round it was with large stone blocks, and divided by stone pillars into storage areas, stalls, and barracks. It was also clear no men could have built it recently—it was too well made for that—and yet the walls had clearly fallen in places too, and although the pillars marked the different parts, the dividing walls there were quite gone. I had heard Talisin speak of such stone fortresses as these along the border. My father had used stones from one to build Cambray, having not the time or skill to quarry new ones.

  I wandered through it in the cold, wrapping my cloak twice about me for warmth, noting how the most recent troops had bestowed themselves, wondering who were the original builders and what had befallen them.

  The old man coughed and spat again. ‘No one will come up here,’ he said, using a local term that meant ‘churl’ or ‘serf’, or ‘peasant’ perhaps, a term, in any case, of contempt. ‘They are afeard.’

  I remember how my father had talked of camping in such a place when he had first come to the borderlands, before Cambray was built. ‘Better to sleep with some protection,’ he had said, ‘even if the ground be haunted by godless men. Evil it may be, but those who built there knew their craft.’

  ‘But they who camped here,’ the old man said, ‘were not so bad. They were Norman-French themselves, and they carried red banners with falcons of gold.’